The Philosophy of Loneliness
by Baba Yaga
Summary: Two new students from Iceland come to Hogwarts, one gets sorted into Slytherin, one to Gryffindor, and changes ensue. This will eventually be DracoHarry, but this is just the first part now.I usually hate fanfics that insert their own chars into the canon
1. Chapter 1

**The Philosophy of Loneliness**

Disclaimer: All HP characters and world not mine.. My chars are mine, but I doubt anyone cares.

Warnings: Slash, AU, OC.

Chapter 1

Draco sat in the Quidditch locker rooms staring at the leering skull tattooed on his upper forearm. He had been dreaming about blood and power ever since he had got it. He missed his old dreams, the ones where he was on his broom going around in circles, huge, endless, confusing circles in a strange city that he somehow knew. Even that was better than killing wild-faced Muggles and enraged wizards, feeling that odd, unpleasant rush of power... He was quite sure that these dreams were not really dreams at all; they were memories. Voldemort's. The Dark Lord was forcing his own memories as propaganda, as some glorification of the life he was offering. Draco's mouth twisted up crookedly, bitterly, and he ripped himself away from his musings and put his clean shirt on. It was almost time for dinner and he still had to talk to his team.

Dumbledore looked at the warmly dressed young man in front of him and tried coming up with a suitable expression for the situation. He knew very well what lie behind the youth's ordinary-looking grey eyes. At the outer corner of each eye there was a small tattoo of a rune formation; a simple one for transfiguration. The aforementioned eyelids blinked once during the professor's scrutiny, concealing a blank expression for a moment and revealing it again. Dumbledore's look continuously changed from pity, to consolation, to polite distance all through their short conversation. The boy's hadn't changed once.

"Where is Olafur?" he asked. His voice was quiet and measured, his speech tinted by a foreign accent.

"The infirmary," answered the headmaster, finally settling on the weary empathetic expression, which felt most at home on the youth's features. "Madam Pomfrey will be done with him soon and you can see him. We will then sort you two into houses for the rest of the year, and you will act as normal students in the school."

"This is unnecessary. You know that it's different where we come from, we are home schooled - "

"Edelsteinn," Dumbledore sighed sadly, "I'm afraid that in light of the circumstances, you have no choice. If you live under the Ministry's jurisdiction, you must follow the laws and go to Hogwarts like all other wizards your age. I will do all that is in my power to help you afterwards, seeing as none of your family's property could be saved."

"It's better off that way." Edelsteinn was fiddling with his fingernails, keeping his numb eyes staring somewhere between the edge of the desk and Dumbledore's hands folded on it.

"Tell me, Edelsteinn, do you happen to remember the ingredients?" The professor raised an eyebrow carefully.

"No. Please don't ask me about it. Olafur was more involved with potion making than me, and I doubt even he wants to remember the ingredients of that cursed thing. Can we at least not be separated into houses? It is such a primitive and shallow..."

"I am not interested in your critique of our system, Mr Baldursson. You may go and inform your friend now. I wish you luck. Please come to me if any trouble or questions arise."

Edelsteinn was not in the mood for talking, but Dumbledore could not hold it against him, he'd looked into the boy's memories and seen what had happened in their house.

Edelsteinn stood up, bowed stiffly, and walked out.

"Good evening," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying over the Great Hall.

"Why is the Sorting Hat here?" Ron whispered.

"Shhh!" Hermione scolded firmly pressing a finger to her lips.

"And those two guys standing -" Ron went on, unable to contain himself.

"Ron!" Hermione hissed and gestured with her head to the teachers' table, where Dumbledore was waiting patiently.

Other similar conversations slowly dimmed into quiet, and the headmaster continued, "Dear students, there are a few matters I would like to address tonight. First and foremost, we have the Quidditch match dates now. They will be hanging on announcement boards in your common rooms, I trust the captains to look into them and plan their practices accordingly. The season opens in two weeks' time!" The students replied with excited clapping, whistling and shouting. They'd been waiting longer than usual that year, and the teams were getting restless. "Secondly, there are two new students joining us this year. They will be studying in the seventh year and will be sorted into houses right now, while everyone is present. Please welcome Baldur Edelsteinn Bladursson and Olafur Sigurdsson from Iceland." He paused while applause scattered briefly throughout the hall. "Boys, will you please step up to the Sorting Hat?"

Harry watched as the first boy, an airy-featured, long-haired blond, walked over to the chair with a straight face and picked up the worn hat with some light distaste. He then sat down, stiffly, back upright and legs pressed together, as though abiding some code of conduct, and placed the hat on his head. The hat mused for some short moments, and then, oddly and to the whole table's surprise, shouted out, "Gryffindor!" This seemed to mean nothing to the new house member, who got up in the same fashion, handed the hat over to his friend, and froze a few feet from him, either unwilling or unknowing where he was supposed to go next. The second boy was of unremarkable appearance, aside for being very tall and very thin. He plopped down on the chair, somehow landing his bony behind as softly as a ballerina, and put the hat on. This time the Sorting Hat seemed to have its work cut out for it. It contemplated for a rather long time, during which the boy under it tried looking straight up into the headgear with some absentminded gloating expression. Like he was challenging it. Harry became quite curious of the debate that must have been going on in there. In a way, it reminded him of his own sorting experience. He was ready to put his money on either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, judging by the stranger's odd demeanour, but before he decided which would suit him more, the hat blurted out, "Slytherin!" This young man, too, seemed untouched by his sorting. He simply shrugged his shoulders, picked up the chair with the hat on it, and carried it somewhere out of view, then reported by his companion's side and stood still. It seemed strange that he did not levitate it or used some other kind of magic. Harry thought maybe he'd come from a Muggle family or something.

"Gryffindors, Slytherins, please welcome your new members," Dumbledore said, and began clapping his hands. Ron, as a true patriot of his house, stood up and motioned to the blond to come to their table. The rest soon joined his clapping, and started shaking the newcomer's hand, introducing each other. Harry stood up and shook his hand, too; the new boy's fingers were long and pale and very cold; apparently his stiffness was due to nerves. "Harry Potter," he said, smiling warmly.

"Edelsteinn Baldursson." The boy nodded lengthily, his featherlight hair gently mimicking him.

"Welcome to our school," Hermione added excitedly, "I hope we help you feel at home."

Edelsteinn found a seat at the edge of the bench across from Ron, who went into a detailed survey of the Quidditch teams at school, and did Edelsteinn play Quidditch, by any chance, because they were going to have tryouts soon. But the Icelander was not listening at all. As Harry followed his eyes, he saw his friend, Olafur, being accepted at the Slytherin table, shaking hands with a contentedly smirking Draco Malfoy. Olafur himself didn't look overly excited about his reception. He had a small, humble smile on his thin lips, which did not reach his eyes.

"Were you good friends?" Harry asked over a sudden, still looking back at the Slytherins.

"We still are," Edelsteinn said, a sort of panicky hardness in his voice.

"I mean... it's a pity you're not going to see each other very often," Harry explained himself uncomfortably. "Our houses are in opposite sides of the castle, and we are not exactly at peace with one another."

The boy was clearly anxious about that very possibility. "Well, your enmities are none of my business," he declared, "and if I want to see Ola, I will. I don't care what people say."

Harry nodded. He was, quite frankly, touched to the very bone. It was brave and noble of him to stand up to his friend like that, even though he was a Slytherin. That was probably what had got him into Gryffindor in the first place. But he was wondering whether those feelings were mutual, since the hat placed the other boy in the house of the deceitful and cunning.

"You must be a master at runes, Edelsteinn!" Hermione forced herself into the conversation, leaning over Harry's plate to get a clear view of him. "I read that it is the preferred type of magic in the north, especially Iceland," she explained to Ron. "They hardly even use wands there, is that true?"

Edelsteinn seemed uncomfortable with all the attention. Harry noticed with some amusement how his long swan neck retreated into his torso like a turtle's. "It is, I guess," the boy answered quietly, "poorer people don't even have wands. Ola only got his three years ago."

"But I never knew that you tattooed the runes on your body," Hermione went on, looking at his face as though examining some disease, "what does it do?"

"Oh, did it hurt?" Ron interfered.

"It's a transfiguration rune. It hurt a lot."

"What is that strange structure you used there - ?"

"Why don't I explain this to you when we are alone, I don't think everyone here is interested in this," Edelsteinn cut her off hurriedly.

"Ha ha!" Ron exclaimed, then burst into real laughter."I love this guy! I love him!" He leaned over the table to pat him on the shoulder chummily. "Say, Edelsteinn, so do you play Quidditch up there? Isn't it a little cold to be up on your broom for hours?"

Edelsteinn shrugged mutely, then came up with, "We don't really have brooms..."

"What?" Ron stared at him, wide-eyed. "So how do you fly?"

"We use a Russian equivalent of your broom. It's called a stupa – a mortar. It's like a... big wooden mortar you climb into and row with a pestle."

"Big wooden mortar! Row with a pestle!" Ron and the other boys breathed out in outrage. Harry couldn't imagine having the freedom and lightness of a broom inside a big wooden trash can. "So you never flew a broom?"

"It's too cold most of the time..." Edelsteinn shrugged apologetically. "And the mortar covers distances very fast, it's much better transportation."

"We have to teach you!" Ron banged his fist down on the table.

"Yeah, you're missing out on so much," Harry agreed. "And... invite your friend over, too," he added as an afterthought. "We can probably do it during the weekend, right?"

"But homework..." Hermione whispered to no one in particular.

"Really?" Edelsteinn's face lit up, and Harry was quite sure that it wasn't the brooms that excited him. "Thank you so much!"

When dinner was over and all the students started filing out of the Hall, Edelsteinn stalled in the corridor just outside the wide double doors. He asked for directions to the Gryffindor tower, but after several attempts to explain, Harry said he'd just stay waiting for him up the stairs to their left. Edelsteinn remained standing alone in the torchlight, hands crossed over chest and deep shadows playing over his face. When he finally caught sight of Olafur coming out, walking by some blond boy who was talking about something with an elevated smirk, he hurried over and called his friend to come away with him.

"I'll catch up with you," Olafur said to his new acquaintance, and strolled off with Edelsteinn, an odd, solemn smile stretched on his thin lips. They walked a little in silence, Edelsteinn keeping as close as possible, and Olafur still smiling as though in a dream. They found a more or less empty area, a columned patio in a grassy inner courtyard. A small square of star-lit sky could be seen over the high walls and towers of the castle.

"So..." Edelsteinn muttered.

"We'll be fine." Ola offered his simple, all-knowing smile, and Edelsteinn was a little relieved. "I saw they were really friendly with you there. And I'm not doing so bad, either."

"What are they like?" Edelsteinn muttered quietly, huddling closer to Olafur and tentatively placing his head on his chest.

"Conceited, power-grubbing noble kids," Ola snickered, hands resting casually on Edelsteinn's back. "It's almost funny, you know, had you grown up here you might have ended up just like them. Thank the gods you didn't. When they heard that I was your servant their faces went so green I was sure they were going to vomit. I'm going to be conveniently cast out," he concluded with a smile in his voice. He started rocking back and forth absentmindedly, soothing the stiff, nervous body in his arms.

Edelsteinn reveled in their closeness, in Ola's voice reverberating through his chest and into his head, almost like telepathy. Ola, while not being the epitome of good looks, had so many tiny charming things about him, that he ended up the world's most beautiful human being in Edelsteinn's eyes. They hadn't had any chance to be close like that since they'd arrived in England and the authorities assailed them, and the reunion was absolute bliss.

"But you were talking to that boy..."

"Malfoy, yes. He's alright. He's their leader or something, the most pureblooded and power-grubbing, but somehow, when you get him alone, he's alright. It doesn't really matter, because we are going to see each other all the time. We have a few lessons together, and then we have all the time after that."

"And Ron, that's the redhead from my table, he wants to teach me how to fly a broom over the weekend. And Harry, that's Harry Potter, he invited you to come along. Isn't that nice of them?"

"Yes. And very optimistic, considering that Malfoy told me that we are never going to see each other because our houses are rivals and the Gryffindors are going to convince you to hate me because I am in Slytherin."

"Strange, that's what they said to me about you..." Edelsteinn laughed quietly. "I miss you when you're away," he whispered into the dusty black sweater Ola always wore.

"Me too. But we will see each other, and this is just for a year, and then we are free and safe, here. It's better like this, to be far from home, to forget what happened there. I've been looking into forgetfulness spells lately..."

"That is horrible!" Edelsteinn pulled away from him in shock, his fair eyebrows knitted rebukingly. "We can't forget our families! It's not decent. It's not respectful. How could we just let them disappear like they'd never even existed?"

"I was just pondering," Ola shrugged his wide frame around his friend. He was not alarmed by Edelsteinn's reprimanding tones, he was practically expecting it. He knew how important such things were to him. Edelsteinn was so attached. "But sometimes it hurts too much. It makes all this seem so... unreal in its adolescent simplicity that it becomes pure absurdness. Makes me feel like we were supposed to die with them. Maybe I wouldn't have felt this out of place..."

"Umm... Edelsteinn?" A confused voice echoed coarsely from the arch they'd come from. "I was just wondering... because... you know... you were taking so long..."

Edelsteinn jumped out of Ola's embrace as though he'd been sprayed with a boiling potion. "Ja!" he exclaimed importantly. "Yes, yes! You are right, Harry Potter! I will go right now!"

Ola, rather than becoming sheepish, started laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. He had a deep, reverberating laugh, and it echoed between the castle walls and evaporated upwards. Harry smiled, too. Funny jumpy fellow, that Edelsteinn.

Ola walked over to Harry, shook his hand, introduced himself. "Excuse Edelsteinn, he's always nervous in new surroundings. It's quite adorable." He threw a warm smile in the boy's direction. "And we are not used to having so many people around. Well... I guess I should get going, too. I'll see you on the weekend." At that he returned to Edelsteinn, placed a comically careful kiss on the top of his head, and slouched away on his long legs. Harry was sure that, had there been any light around but the stars, he would have seen Edelsteinn red as a crab.

"No Quidditch!" Ron shouted hysterically. All heads in the common room turned to him, alarmed. "How can you live with no Quidditch!"

Edelsteinn braced himself for yet another explanation about the oddity of his life. Harry smirked; this was almost getting old, but just almost. Edelsteinn's neurotic disposition never once that evening failed to provide him with entertainment. "We live in secluded places, far from one another," the Icelandic boy explained patiently. "There are never enough people to play games like that. And playing that in a stupa would be not comfortable, don't you think? I know the game generally, but I never played it. Or saw anyone else. My father used to go to league games in Reykjavík when I was very little, but he never took me with. Not that I would have remembered, anyway. Where am I going to sleep?"

Hermione snickered as he childishly, unsuccessfully stifled a yawn.

"I agree," Harry slipped in, "it's late. I think I'll go to bed, too. Our dorms are upstairs, come on. A bed appeared there just after dinner, I'm guessing it's for you." Edelsteinn sighed, relieved, and stood up from the big red armchair he was occupying the whole evening.

"You're very close with Olaf, aren't you?" Harry asked carefully as he lead up the stairs.

"Yes. We grew up together."

"So you don't think that being in Slytherin would change him?"

Edelsteinn laughed shortly. "You don't know Ola. He has a very independent mind. Has his own opinion on everything."

"Just... I saw him talking to Malfoy. Malfoy is bad news."

"Strange, Ola said that he was the only normal person there."

"Well, excuse me if I don't trust his judgment then." Harry shook his head disgustedly. "We should try getting him as far away from the Slytherins as possible if you don't want Malfoy turning him into another lackey."

"What's a lackey?"

"There's your bed there," Harry pointed. "A lackey is a servant."

Edelsteinn laughed. "Well then, that is not a problem, Ola has been a servant his whole life."

"What?" Harry turned abruptly round, his pajama top dropping from his hand.

"We grew up together because he was a servant of my family."

"Wizards serving wizards? What about house-elves?"

"They don't live in our climate. Ola's family has served mine for many generations. Ola's been my personal "lackey", as you call it, my whole life. We are best friends."

Harry frowned in concentration, trying to put the idea of servitude and friendship under the same roof with the matter-of-fact intonation Edelsteinn had just used. Somehow, it wasn't working out. And the way he'd found the two implied something more than a friendship. At first he thought he'd just chanced on a couple in the middle of a makeout session, and he only recognized the long-haired figure as Edelsteinn when he heard him speak.

"Well... good night then."

"Good night."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Philosophy of Loneliness**

Disclaimer: All HP characters and world not mine.. My chars are mine, but I doubt anyone cares.

Warnings: Slash, AU, OC.

Chapter 2

Harry sat in the library, cherishing the warm light inside after a lesson with Hagrid out in the snow. Hermione and Ron, having apparently taken Edelsteinn's reeducation very seriously, were explaining about the school, each in turn and so confusingly that even Harry couldn't set anything straight. Edelsteinn kept a very straight and concentrated face, but his frequent glances towards the grandfather clock were a sure giveaway. The day had gone by without any happenings. In the morning, Edelsteinn found his school uniform lying on the chest at the foot of his bed. He looked so ridiculously white in the black robe that Hermione, upon seeing him down in the common room, was sure he'd fallen ill during the night and tried convincing him to go to the infirmary. Edelsteinn coyly explained that he was fine, thank you, and that black always made him look like death himself. Breakfast was spent talking about Quidditch, only this time it was a beginner's conversation, as Harry was looking for new players, and Ron apparently got the pedagogical bug from too much time with Hermione.

When the clock showed five, Edelsteinn started squirming in his seat. "How do I get to the dining hall from here?" he asked over a sudden.

"Why? Dinner isn't till three hours from now," Ron mused.

"Ola's lessons are over now, we set to meet there."

"Well, why don't we call him over here and get to know each other?" Hermione suggested.

Edelsteinn blushed. "We wanted some time alone, really... But I am sure he would love to get to know you all!" He added hurriedly. "He said he will be there on Sunday, for broom lessons."

"You take a left from the library, walk down the corridor and turn right at the fourth intersection. You should know the way from there," Harry said, since he saw the boy was practically running away. Edelsteinn nodded thankfully, gathered his things clumsily, and bolted out.

"He's too nice a kid to be so dependent on a Slytherin," Ron said once Edelsteinn was out the door. "I hope he doesn't get in trouble."

Harry shrugged. "We'll just have to get to know Olafur on the weekend. He seemed quite likable to me."

"It also seemed like he was Malfoy's new project," Ron said darkly. "Did you see how they were talking? Like good old chums!"

"Ron, can you imagine how frightening and strange it is for a foreigner to just land in this place in the middle of the school year, separated from his only friend?" Hermione, the voice of reason. "And in Slytherin, of all Houses!"

Ron twisted his face. "I wouldn't end up talking to Malfoy if he were the last person on earth, even if I had to talk to no one but myself for the rest of my life."

"Maybe it's all for the best?" Harry suggested with an exaggeratedly bright expression. "Maybe Olafur will have a good effect even on Malfoy. I mean, look how he raised _this_ first son of an old noble family - he's all shy and humble!" Everyone burst out laughing, Harry - mainly at the image of the two-meter tall Olafur sticking a baby's dummy into Malfoy's hands.

"You have to separate them here, otherwise there can be a double meaning, and you don't want a spell with a double meaning." Ola elegantly squiggled a line between a pair of runes Draco had drawn. Next to Ola's free-flowing, easy rune-formations, Draco found his own very pedantic-looking and jumpy. Like my runes have a broomstick up their arse, he thought to himself disapprovingly. But Ola never said anything of that sort. He wasn't the kind of person to judge others by their handwriting or choice of clothes. He just said things like, 'If you make this one any sharper it would look like an Au, and then... double meaning', and smile. At first that all-accepting demeanour left Draco confused, but he was surprised to find that such an attitude was amazingly easy getting used to.

"Rune magic is like poetry," Ola went on inspirationally, lyrically waving a long-fingered hand in the air. It was always hard to tell humour from serious facts when Ola was involved. He slid into his exaggerated gesticulations without any logical pattern. " - Every word, every syllable counts. That's why I always say no one can abuse it, because a person who does ill cannot make such poetry."

"Was it never used for black magic?" Draco perked up at the prospect of a familiar and loved topic.

"That calls for a different approach. I don't know much about it. It's been practically eradicated where I lived. As far as I understand, it uses an older set of runes, they call it the First Set. They are very ancient, fewer in number, and their power coarser, less exact. It's spoken in a different meter and the signs are drawn with the hands in the air, not on the ground like I showed you."

"That is a horrible use for a wand, by the way," Draco put in, still shocked. Ola shrugged. He rarely used his wand, as he himself admitted; he said he hated Latin because it was the Church's language and it had destroyed his people's heritage. Ola's "heritage" was very important to him. He knew large poems from the Poetic Edda by heart and most of his metaphors and allusions had something to do with Norse literature. Whenever he was thinking of something he would play with a big silver pendant of Thor's Hammer that usually hung under his shirt; said it made him feel comfortable.

The door to the dormitory was suddenly jerked open and a bass voice hollered, "Draco, we're going to practice, are you coming?"

"Team practice is Tuesday, bugger off," Draco barked in response, without so much as turning back. Goyle muttered something equally impolite and slammed the door shut. Draco could hear his heavy steps scurrying off down the hall.

"Aren't you the captain of that team?" Ola asked curiously.

"I set our practice for Tuesday," Draco insisted. "I have other things on my mind, like homework."

"And things that have nothing to do with homework," Ola remarked, nodding an eyebrow in the direction of the rune-covered scroll in front of them.

"Hey, how about I teach you to play Quidditch?" Draco brightened up by the thought of getting to spend more time with this intelligent form of life, the only one in Slytherin, he realized over the last few days. When Ola was not running off somewhere to meet with his precious Gryffindor, Draco tried spending as much time with him as possible. Somehow, Ola wriggled his way under all the facades, sarcastic remarks, arrogance and racism that defined Draco Malfoy to the world, and even to himself. After much analysis, Draco decided that it was because Olafur just didn't care. This worldly nonsense was so far beneath him, that he didn't even see it. He just saw people as they were. And Draco had not felt this human with anyone in many, many years. It felt so natural, so normal, so _realistic_, to talk to a person without playing a role written in advance, to have a conversation without striving for power and dominance. Like suddenly he was allowed a freedom of action within himself that the circumstances of his life hadn't allowed him up until then. It occurred to him that his very being had deteriorated into some stereotypical, shallow existence, living on the verge of Potter's perception of him. As far as he remembered, this dilapidation began shortly before his first big social role in life began, around age ten or eleven – first year in Hogwarts. The roles were being picked up already on the train. Harry Potter had been the star of it all, and Weasly just happened to sit with him and be right for the part, and so, around the sun of Potter, a constellation started forming. There was Longbottom for comic relief and clumsy jokes, Granger for the nerdy touch, cast as Voice of Reason. Then the bad guys had to be collected, and they were. Everything fell into place so easily, so quickly, that before anyone even noticed (and Draco doubted many people aside from himself noticed this at all) - they had an active, productive solar system, complete with asteroids threatening to destroy the world, distant constellations and galaxies and whatnot. Every school has one. But we don't have to remain slaves to it for all eternity, do we? Let children's games effect the outcome of our lives? Draco shook his head to himself. This was as good a time as any other to grow the hell up. Olafur was a blessed relief. Olafur loved listening to Draco, could drown in any kind of story like a child. Olafur had a world of useful information in his mysterious head, and was more than willing to share it. Olafur could even be handsome, if you looked at him from the right angle. Preferably from somewhere closer to his eye-level than the ground usually allowed. Draco grew into a tall young man, but Ola's head nonetheless floated above him, offering a view on his badly shaved chin and his long, thin nose, usually tipped red in the cold of the dungeons.

"Draco, you listening?"

"Wha-? Yes!" Draco concentrated on the page in front of him, where his own hand had scribed something horribly, horribly wrong. "How didn't I notice this?" He hurriedly waved his wand over the page and made the shameful mistake disappear. Ola immediately bent down a little and produced a new formation with a swift, free hand. The rune equivalent of Draco's spell. He then theatrically removed himself from over the scroll and allowed Draco some time to examine it. He did everything theatrically. "I don't think I can twist my tongue around that..." Draco muttered, after trying to pronounce the sounds in his head. "How on earth do you speak this stuff?"

"Well, it makes more sense when you understand what you are saying. I can start teaching you with this," Ola smiled almost evilly, got up from the couch they were sharing and covered the distance to his bed in the other side of the room with about two steps. From the bottom of his scarcely filled chest he produced a book; old, worn, grey and very fat. Pieces of its fabric binding were garlanding down like a wright's shrouds, and it was probably as boring as its appearance promised it to be. When he presented it close enough for Draco to read, he saw that it said in worn out Gothic script, "_A Course in the Structure of Runic Icelandic_".

"I found it while waiting for Edelsteinn in the library." Olafur washed the book with a warm, loving smile, cradling it in his long branchy limbs. "You want to go over the first chapter?"

Olafur looked so adorably excited about it that Draco couldn't refuse, even in face of the boredom he knew would ensue. Draco was not strong at languages, he'd had enough headaches studying French with a half-corpse ruler-wielding professor who could barely hear him, and solved any misunderstanding with a beating. Olafur disapproved of that disinterest in linguistics, himself speaking English, German and French aside from his native Icelandic, and currently dealing with Russian. When discussing his native tongue he often reverted into strange linguistic terms like "deponent verbs" and "cleft sentences", at which Draco pulled "The Confused Face", an agreed sign of misunderstanding among them. Ola's Confused Face was a clownish look of astonishment, with one eyebrow raised all the way to his hairline and the second practically climbing into the eye pit, while the whole face somehow dug back into his neck, making him look more retarded than confused. Draco's was a little more subtle, as he was less inclined towards openly announcing his sense of humour, and involved a light frown, a delicate twist to the mouth, and a slightly martyred expression. After the surfacing of such a face, the other youth had to go into a more detailed explanation of what he'd just said. It proved extremely useful in every single one of their conversations.

After half a chapter Draco had had enough. Ola's teaching skills exceeded old Professor Luchois', but you could only take this much information about cases in one day. ("Dative is Dative, but sometimes it's Instrumental and sometimes it's just due to a preposition, so it has a different meaning..."). Draco decided that the subject had to be changed.

"So, Ola, how about Quidditch?"

Ola turned back to him from the book, dark blue eyes watery and tired from the torturous Gothic script. "O, yeah, that. Edelsteinn is going to get broom lessons from Potter and his friends, and they invited me to come along. Maybe you should come, you can throw in your own tips."

Draco's face darkened. "Don't worry, you're in the hands of the best," he said poisonously.

"You don't like each other much, do you?" Ola asked.

"I have nothing to like him for." Draco threw himself back into the soft stuffed couch. "He hates me, thinks I am the embodiment of underage evil. And we are on opposing sides, my family being Death Eaters and such."

Ola frowned at that. Draco hadn't seen him expressing a political opinion before. He had taken it for granted that Ola was on "their" side, being from an ancient pureblood family, serving an ancient pureblood family. "Do you... agree with your family's views?" Ola asked cautiously.

"I am the only heir of an old and proud heritage," he pronounced flatly, and felt a rush of irritation at his own words.

Ola also realized this. "No, but seriously..."

"I don't have much choice, really, do I?" Draco blurted out lamely. "I never asked for all this, I simply take responsibility for my own duties to my family. There's nothing more important than family, that's how I was raised." He shrugged his shoulders. "And what I personally like or dislike has nothing to do with it."

Ola raised an eyebrow, only it wasn't the Confused Face. It was serious. "Let me tell you about Death Eaters, Draco, and what they do to their own _families_. Maybe that would help you form your opinion. I'm sure you've been wondering what these signs by my eyes are."

Draco nodded, he had indeed. He would have had to be nose to nose with the youth just to make the signs out, they were so small, and then he would have to understand the spell.

"These runes are for permanent transfiguration. The eyes you see right now are the eyes I'd been born with, but it is not the way they look right now." Ola's hand started climbing up towards his left eye, but stopped dead in the air as a look of confusion and embarrassment fleeted through his face. He made up his mind quickly, caught Draco's glance sternly, and touched a finger to the tattoo. A short whispered spell flew out of his lips, and the illusion dispersed. Draco choked on his next breath.

"Close your mouth, Malfoy," Ola muttered sternly, lowering his horrifying eyes. When Draco tried to comply, all he could do was open and close it again soundlessly. "This - is what Edelsteinn's father, the man who did this, called the "Naked Eye". Professor Baldursson was a famed researcher in the field of potions, expert in domination and mind alteration substances. I'll cut a very long and dramatic story as short as I can. I would rather not remember this, but since you seem to have such a hard time deciding, I'll sacrifice some peace of mind for your sake. About three years ago, Baldursson got entangled in an ugly business involving the Death Eaters. They were fascinated with his life's work – an absolute mind domination potion, with an irreversible effect. It was supposed to turn its victims into mindless slaves, serving anyone in their vicinity in command of the imperative form."

Draco shuddered at the prospect of that power. And the coldness of heart it demanded to employ... Like any other form of absolute power, if he thought about it.

"He became obsessed right about when the Death Eaters came over and offered him unlimited funding for the early completion of the experiments. He didn't care what they were going to do with it, but the family's funds were running low, and all he wanted was to find out if he could get it done. When they came back a couple of years later and Baldursson had too little progress to show for their huge investment, they started pressing on him. Then he disappeared for a week – they took him somewhere to see the Dark Lord himself. When he came back - he was completely insane. I knew him well, he was like a second father to me, he had me as an apprentice in his lab since I was thirteen. He taught me everything I know about the world. As you can imagine, he got the Dark Mark, so Voldemort could torment him day and night about the potion. When he ran out of livestock and animals for his experiments, he started using the household members. Professor Larson, our old language teacher, ran off just in time, lucky man. As you have guessed by now, no matter the alterations done to the potion, most of its effect was this," Ola pointed at his eyes. "It was to be dropped in the eyes, to get absorbed into the brain and then slowly, gently burn away at the right parts of it to get the wanted result – obedience, along with some basic intelligence. But all it did was burn away the eyelids and skin around the eye, and turn your irises this horrifying glowing blue. And it doesn't just look scary. After a while – it drives you mad. You can't sleep, you can't rest, and you see things..." Olafur shuddered. "He started experimenting on my family first, since we were the servants, after all. My parents, my brothers and sister, were all kept locked like animals in the basement for examination of long-term effects. That's what he said to me when I begged him to let them die in peace. Then he took his own wife. He held us all like that for weeks. Edelsteinn and I locked in the pantry, and the rest suffering from advanced psychosis in the basement. He wanted to take Edel and me last. At first I let myself hope that he still had a bit of humanity left in him and he just wanted to spare his two favourite people. I was younger then, naïve. Actually, he was just waiting for results of previous experiments to try a newer and improved version on us."

By now Draco found it harder and harder to keep looking at Ola. His horror stricken face was numbly directed at the floor, but in the corner of his vision, Ola's eyes still glowed that unnatural, dreadful blue, sans pupils, sans expression, sans eyelids. Just a pair of white orbs with red veins twining through them.

"When he came to take us we were lucky. He only managed to pour a little bit before the ones locked in the basement, in utter dementia, broke out, tore him to pieces, and burned down the house, themselves included. We ran away. That's it." Ola shut his lips on that final sentence with the hope to never speak again. Draco finally dared turn back to him when he noticed Ola's hand rise back to his face to hide his atrocious eyes under the runes. "No, you don't have to say anything, Draco. Little can be said about such a story, I know. But keep this in mind when you make your decision."

Draco nodded mutely.

"Now, I think I will go to sleep. I have to get up early tomorrow to meet with the Gryffindors." Draco saw him get up, and heard him walk back to his bed, heard the ruffle of fabric as he put his pajama pants on, and the mattress squealing under his weight. He kept his eyes on the fire in the fireplace. "Hope you don't have nightmares," Olafur added before turning off the light at his bedside.

Draco awoke from the heavy door creaking open. Last night's resolve shot into his head immediately and he bolted up straight in his bed. "Wait!" he called. Ola's head peered into the room from behind the door.

"Aye?"

"I'm coming with you!" Draco said, already jumping out of bed and into his trousers. He then remembered to take his pajama pants off, and restarted the procedure. Ola strolled back in, hands in pockets as always, staring at his big winter boots slowly landing and rising from the stone floor. Draco had scarcely ever dressed up so fast. He grabbed his broomstick from its case under his bed on his way out, and threw the scarf around his neck already in the corridor. He didn't even get to comb his hair.

"Looks better like that, anyway," Ola remarked offhandedly, keeping his leisurely stroll in a very leisurely pace. Draco, on the other hand, was all but bouncing in his nervousness. He kept raking his free hand through his hair to try making it look somewhat tidier, rearranging his robes and his scarf, trying to decided whether to keep his hands in his pockets or crossed on his chest, but for the life of him couldn't keep them just dangling by his sides; he felt like a moron.

"Hey, relax, Malfoy, you're starting to remind me of Edelsteinn," Ola smirked down to him.

They emerged into the snow-covered courtyard and discovered it was yet another glum, sunless morning. Olafur pulled his wool hat back down over his blushing ears. It was too small and kept climbing up.

"Where did you set to meet?" Draco asked jumpily.

"Out here," the Icelander shrugged his broad, thin shoulders. His dark blue eyes - Draco would never be able to look at them the same as before – scanned the bleak expanses of the lawns. The eyelids covering them to form his bored expression seemed real enough; so real that one could touch them. Draco wanted to ask for permission, but then Olafur's scattered gaze focused and his features transformed into a sincere, happy smile. "Eðelsteinn!" he called out, the name rolling off his tongue in Icelandic, making it sound like the happiest bunch of syllables in the world. Ola took his hands out of his pockets and practically ran towards his friend. Draco frowned. No one had ever run to him smiling that way. In fact, that very moment two whole people were advancing in his general direction with quite the opposite of that expression on their faces. Draco decided on the hands in pockets pose, and remained imbued into his spot in the snow, his head barely turning left to look at the scene of joyous reunion and friendly hand-shaking. The whole thing had gotten quite far from him by now. As if to magnify the repulsive, aggressive loneliness he was feeling, snow began to fall, dotting his field of vision white and fluffy and distancing him yet more. The air was still as a lake in a summer evening, warm and pregnant with the snow. Draco felt like he was watching an imaginary picture of pastoral happiness. Then Ola turned back to him and Draco had to smile a little, as he could see the raised eyebrow all the way from where he stood. As he walked closer he could also see the dark expressions on the two Gryffindors' faces (the third one being in utter bliss).

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Potter asked, his voice and entire demeanour spelling out his readiness to spring on the enemy. He was not quite hostile, but he was eager to become so.

"Ola invited me," Draco said simply, honestly. He forcefully removed the habitual haughtiness from his voice, and took care to keep his chin at regular hight, because old habits die hard, but if you are prepared – you can kill anything. And Draco was perfectly aware of what made him impossible to bear, after all, it was a fine art that he's perfected himself.

Potter seemed disarmed for a moment. Weasley also had a confused expression on his simpleton face, Draco thought, but quickly erased the word "simpleton", since he had decided to grow a sense of tact the previous night, and Draco always owned up to his promises. To himself. And maybe to other people, as well, from now on, he added as an afterthought.

"I hope it's alright with you," Olafur stepped in, smiling innocently. So convenient to be a foreigner sometimes, Draco smirked to himself. "So, how about those brooms, eh?" He pat Draco and Ron on the back and moved his smiling face from one to the other.

"Yeah, they're in the shed," Ron muttered distractedly, peering sideways at Draco. "Let's go."

Before they could start walking, Edelsteinn stepped up to Draco and offered his hand for a shake. He was absolutely charming, and beautiful as all the most beautiful things in the world. When Draco shook his slender hand he found it was pleasantly cool and the skin soft and silky like none he had ever felt in his life. His features seemed light and feathery in their simple perfection, the oval of his face most prominently made up of big, round grey eyes, a pair of laconic nostrils and a full, pale mouth, sweet as a rosebud. All that with a frame of pale yellowish hair flowing light as snow all the way to his waist made him look like some sort of disgustingly sweet Prince Charming, or, more exactly – Princess Charming. Girls probably drooled all over him; as did boys, secretly dreaming of a perfect world where this little miracle did not have a male organ in his pants.

"Ola told me much about you," Edelsteinn went on while Draco was deep in his venomous thoughts. "I'm so very glad to meet you." Draco also marked it against him that his light Icelandic accent, with the sharp rolling R's and deep, pronounced vowels, only added to his charm. He was not sure why this boy's so-called "perfection" vexed him so, but all he wanted was to get away from it somehow.

"Same here," Draco answered politely, impatient to get on his broom and vent some of the strange anger and nerves assailing him. He followed the group last, watching the uncanny closeness between Olafur and Edelsteinn, how their hands almost brushed each other as they walked, how there was a bounce to the blond boy's step. A little behind them were the two star Gryffindors. Ron turned back from time to time, perhaps to make sure Draco was not preparing to throw a curse at them, or maybe just in hopes that he would go away. But Draco persisted, no matter how much these anger and bitter loneliness weighed on his heart.

The broom shed was in fact much closer than it seemed to Draco, and everyone was in possession of one in a matter of moments, Granger and the Weasley girl having lent theirs to the new students. Potter then proceeded his instruction. He mounted his broom for demonstration, the rest followed. Edelsteinn was obviously unaccustomed to this thin little stick as support, and Olafur just looked stupid, his height dwarfing the broom and making him look like an eagle perching on a twig. He turned to Draco and gave him a sheepish grin, which elicited a small, tight-lipped smile from the Slytherin. He slowly climbed on his broomstick and got in position to take off, his legs slightly bent at the knees.

"So you do like this," Potter was lamely explaining the same position as Draco was in, going up and down slowly to stress the point. "And then you just take off." And he shot off the ground in one fluid motion. Olafur, bending his knees and obviously feeling ridiculous, attempted to copy the Gryffindor, but the broom refused to obey him and he just ended up swaying up and down in hopes that something would happen.

"Potter left out the main part," Draco interfered politely, "you have to feel the broom obey you, will it to fly, see?" He let go of his broom and it just remained in the air under him. Ola let go of his broom trustingly, and it fell with a dull 'humph' on the snow. He fixed the inanimate object with a deadly glare and muttered something in Icelandic under his breath, pointing at it with a twiggy finger, and the broom obediently bounced into his awaiting hands. And stayed there.

"I guess that's also a way," Draco admitted, smirking lopsidedly. Edelsteinn was the only one of the Gryffindors willing to admit the humour of the situation, repeating his friend's actions with a budding smile. Using their strange little spell, the boys had no problems with the broomsticks as most beginners did; they were perfectly obedient. All they needed was to master the steering. They all discovered that Edelsteinn was a speed addict, but combined with his present skills, he just managed to bump into people. He collided with Potter so hard that both of them got knocked off and fell into the snow. Luckily, they were not very high up, for safety reasons.

"I'm so sorry! So sorry, Harry!" Edelsteinn crawled over to Potter's dark figure in the snow, who was lying prone on his back, laughing and laughing at the white sky. Draco looked down at them from the air with a sealed face.

"It's not that bad, is it?" He was startled out of his thoughts by Ola's soundless appearance at his side.

Draco shook his head slowly, still looking down at the panicky blond trying to help a dizzy, laughing Potter off the ground, brushing snow from his hair and cloak. Draco had a nauseating feeling that a snowball fight would ensue. He came to the final conclusion that Ola's boyfriend – and he had no doubt that that was Edelsteinn's true title – was a shameful joke, and the elegant, cool Ola deserved better. He peered at his fellow Slytherin from the corner of his eye. He was looking down as well, smiling that quiet, mystical smirk of his.

"You're doing quite well," Draco said suddenly, turning Olaf's attention back to himself. "Do you like flying?"

Olafur nodded and shrugged. "It's okay. I like Potions more." He let go of his broom to pull the hat back down irritably. "But I wouldn't mind playing your Quidditch, if you teach me how. I'm not used to just sitting all day, you know. I'm a working man, after all."

Draco had a good idea. That is, it would have been good had the people involved been his friends. He threw a hesitant glance back to the ground, where a snowball fight was already in full action, and just thought 'What the heck...'

"Hey!" he shouted down at them. "Let's have a match!" His voice sounded too loud and coarse, disappearing shortly in the stuffy, snowy air.

The blissful snow-throwing below stopped immediately. Potter's dark head turned its lighter part – his face – towards Draco, and he fancied that he could see the bewildered expression all the way up where he was. Draco smiled contentedly. He was throwing everyone off today.

"Olafur wants to know how to play Quidditch," Draco explained to the slow minded Gryffindors. A consultation began on the ground, and fast enough the Gryffindor pack was in the air next to them, Potter and Weasley debating where they would get more players and balls.

"We can play two on two - " Draco stepped in logically.

"Oh, be reasonable, Malfoy!" Weasley spat out. "There's no way in the world to play Quidditch two on two!"

Malfoy rolled his eyes exaggeratedly (Olafur's company is starting to tell, he thought to himself). "Have you no imagination, Weasley?" He swooped down, grabbed a big pile of snow without even stopping and made a big snowball. He then returned to the group, very dramatically holding it up in one hand, like the house elves always held the trays when serving food, and transfigured it into a shiny, red Quaffle.

"Showoff," Ron snorted under his nose. Draco disregarded the remark.

"This is the Quaffle," he said, generously moving his creation in a wide arc for everyone to see. Olafur's uptight smile seemed to be fighting back laughter. "This is what you are supposed to get into your opponents' hoops. They have three hoops," he said, looking around thoughtfully for someplace to put them. He decided on a very small field and, pointing his wand, placed three illusionary hoops on a line of trees not far from them. He swooped down again to make the Bludgers and a little Snitch, and presented those as well. The Snitch's wings turned out crooked and looked more like a pair of hands, but he decided it would have to do. "Those are Bludgers. They are meant to hit you and knock you off the broom. This is a Snitch, it flies very fast and the Seeker has to catch it. That wins the game. Now, how about teams?"

When his user-friendly explanation was over, he was faced with two dark, unhappy Gryffindors. Draco had taken over their little escapade, and it was not to their liking.

"We can't play Quidditch two on two," Weasley insisted in a low, dangerous tone of voice.

Draco raised an eyebrow challengingly. "Oh, really?"

"You're not going to animate snowmen to act as extra players, are you, Malfoy?" Potter burst out exasperatedly. "You forgot to mention that every team is supposed to have seven players. Seven!"

"You don't have to be so hard on him," Edelsteinn intervened innocently. Potter's face froze in his annoyed expression, and he peered at the blond. "We can just throw the ball in the hoops," the Icelander finished with a sheepish shrug.

"That would be basketball on brooms!" Potter said.

"What's basketball?" a few voices muttered simultaneously.

"You all forget why we are here today," Olafur interjected patiently. "Throwing a silly ball into a silly hoop would be just as good practice flying a broom as anything. Am I wrong?"

There was silence. Weasley and Draco were still wearing their unfriendly faces, while Harry admitted to himself that the guy had a point.

"Why is he not a Ravenclaw, remind me?" Ron muttered dryly, not removing his suspicious glare from Malfoy.

"Because he's a pureblood who likes Potions?" Draco suggested jokingly. Olafur, once more, was the only one to appreciate the humour. This little play-date was only reminding Draco why he preferred keeping away from most people.

"And here I thought we could get through the period of an hour without hearing that word," Harry said sarcastically, folding his hands on his chest. That wiped the strange smile off Malfoy's face. The strange thing about it was that it did not look like most of his smiles – self contented and conceited. It looked like just any other smile on a joking teenager's face. At Harry's comment, Malfoy's expression darkened, then turned to stone. He simply shrugged and diverted his gaze towards the invisible horizon. Had he known better, Harry would have thought that the Slytherin was offended. His eyes were narrowed and the dark yellow eyelashes gathered closely around them, reminding of enraged rays of sunlight coming from behind grey storm clouds.

When Harry first saw the Slytherin upon coming out of the castle, he had to admit to himself that he experienced a short-lived hope that his little joke about Olafur's influence had come true, and the Slytherin House could include normal people, and even two at a time. Malfoy did not look his usual that day and that only added to the wild speculations in Harry's head. His fair hair was uncombed and un-slicked, and that already made an improvement – he looked much less of his usual sly bastard. But Harry's optimism, as always, had to be cast aside once more in the face of reality: Malfoy was obviously trying to be nice and friendly, but his version of those things was so twisted that all he managed to do with his little performance was piss everyone off.

"Well, I wouldn't want to ruin your nice time," Malfoy said over a sudden, whipping his head around to look at them all. "I have homework to do." And he shot away on his broom, practically flying into the castle doors. Harry followed him with his eyes, shocked, and realized that he was actually feeling bad for making the Slytherin leave. His conscience didn't care that it was Malfoy, it simply felt that being nasty to someone who was just trying to be nice was impolite. Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably and passed an embarrassed look around his friends.

"Well, then..." Ron smiled. "Now we can play!"


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: All HP characters and world not mine.. My chars are mine, but I doubt anyone cares.

Warnings: Slash, AU, OC.

XXXX

After Harry and Ron left back to the tower, Edelsteinn lead Olafur to a clearing he'd found in the woods. He pulled his wand out of his belt and drew some runes on the snow. They lit up and disappeared, clearing a pleasant grassy spot for them, and Ola quickly slumped down, leaning on a mossy stump. Edelsteinn lay his head on Ola's legs and looked up at him as the Slytherin made silly faces using strands of his long hair. Edelsteinn tried talking about something serious, but when Ola was not in the mood for it, it was utterly impossible to get through to him. He kept changing subjects, distracting Edelsteinn with strange remarks and generally clowning around.

"I think a year is too long to live like this, I need you near. I can't sleep, and when I do, I get nightmares. Everything reminds of them. I am scared all the time. Haven't you noticed I am not being my usual self?" Edelsteinn's serious look attempted to bore through Ola's imitation of Dumbledore. "Ola?" He frowned, yanking his hair away from his friend's chin. "What's wrong with you?"

Ola shrugged and dropped his hands down. They landed limp in his lap, next to Edelsteinn's head, and absently started tracing the lines of the blond's left ear. "I'm not in the mood. Hey, listen, how about we sneak down to Hogsmead - "

"No!" Edelsteinn barked. He shoved the hands off him and scrambled up to a sitting position, glaring at Olafur furiously. "We are not going anywhere till you explain yourself!"

"I don't have anything to explain," Ola shrugged again, looking back at his friend with a daringly calm face. Only Olafur could make calmness look like war, Edelsteinn thought to himself angrily. And Edelsteinn could not let himself be angry with his commanding servant; Ola was too chaotic, too unpredictable, to endanger their relationship by setting him off. Of course, he knew that Ola would never leave him and never stop loving him, that would be ridiculous, after a lifetime together. But if he made Ola feel too trapped, the bastard could just ignore him for weeks, or treat him like any other uninteresting human being surrounding him. It always bothered Edelsteinn about Olafur that he was so unattached. It was one of his most prominent characteristics, and it often forced Edelsteinn to be jealous of stupid meaningless things that happened to catch his strange love's imagination. He could be jealous of a book, or a place, a house that seemed interesting, an idea, a poem, even Muggles! Anything that kept Olafur away from him. It reached ridiculous levels at times; he could be pushed aside for the sake of a tree, a sunset that Olafur just had to watch alone, stones, paintings, clothes and chores, tasks and horses that the servant preferred over human company.

"I think I'll go," Ola said suddenly in a sleepy, bored tone. He stretched a little, to stress his disinterest, and stood up.

"Wait! What -? Where are you going?" Edelsteinn stumbled onto his feet clumsily on his hands and knees. "Ola! Come back here, please..." He sighed and remained standing there, wiping his palms on his pants.

"I don't feel like listening to what you're jealous of this time, Edel," Olafur said, not even looking back. He finally disappeared from view behind a cluster of trees, strolling lazily with his hands lost in the pockets of his black sheepskin coat. Edelsteinn felt like making something explode, like running over to that ungrateful bastard and beat him up with his bare hands, feel the bones and the skin getting smashes by his fists... But he retained his anger. He hugged himself, as if to keep his hands from doing harm, and started making his way back.

XXXXX

Ola was amusing himself with Edelsteinn's magnificent hair while the blond was ranting about not seeing him enough. His mind wandered easily; to plan his next Runes lesson with Draco, to write his Arithmancy essay, and contemplate the colours of the sun on the snow. Then Edelsteinn started demanding his attention. If there was one thing Ola hated - it was demanding behvaiour, and Edelsteinn knew that perfectly well. This time was no different, and the moment that spoiled brattish tone started using the imperative, Olafur's thoughts turned to the quiet Slytherin dungeons and Draco's uncomplicated company. That was when he left.

Now, going down the stairs to the Slytherin common room, he started feeling bad about what he'd done. He knew how hard it had been for his little master, he had had to wake him up from violent nightmares many times, then watch the beloved pale face crumpled up in agony, trying to cry from tear ducts that no longer existed, trying to cast out his pain, and remaining crippled and unable to.

With these thoughts he entered the common room, just to discover his brand new friend screaming at one of his big idiot buddies, he didn't quite catch their names and didn't awfully care.

"Leave me the bloody hell alone! Can't you see I'm fucking busy, you retard!" Draco stood over his favourite armchair, holding a book and a notebook in his left hand, and a wand in his outstretched right. Ola had never heard the polished Slytherin speak in such a sleazy accent before, and it sounded almost amusing. Ola silkily slid towards him, placing his hands down on the shorter boy's tense shoulders and pulling him back towards himself.

"Draco, do we really need to get so worked up?" he whispered in a sing-song near the blond's ear.

Draco visibly relaxed and leaned back towards Ola, but the Icelander could see the frown on the handsome profile.

"No. I overreacted." Draco coldly looked back at Crabbe/Goyle. "Didn't mean to, no harm done."

"Yeah, whatever, Malfoy," Crabbe or Goyle snorted, looking at the close pair quite disgustedly. "I see you prefer being with that faggot anyway. Have fun taking it up - "

"That's it! I'm going to fucking _kill _him!" Draco tore out of Olafur's grasp and before the other boy could do anything, cast his spell. A flash of light erupted from the edge of his wand and crashed into the big, fat chest of its target, engulfing the body in electric pulses. Crabbe, now Ola was quite sure that that was his insignificant name, emitted a horrible scream, twisting and shuddering in the flashing light for what seemed like a very long and noisy time, until the darkness set back into the Slytherin dungeon. Then he fell down and remained there, moaning and whimpering. His body was still raked by additional shocks now and then, so the few other students present did not even dare come to his aid. Draco's hand remained in the air, shaking with rage. Ola found the nasty little smirk on the flushed noble features quite charming. There was an almost mischivous spark in Draco's pale grey eyes that he had never previously had the pleasure of seeing.

"Well, isn't that swell..." Ola murmured, leaning over Draco's left shoulder to get a closer look at the twitching student on the floor.

"Thank you," Draco finally dropped his hand down and started straightening his robes. "I'm rather fond of that spell. My father taught me."

"How much detention are you looking at?" Ola peered back at his friend curiously.

"Depends on Snape's mood. And points off the house, too..." Draco tucked his wand back into his robes and sat down. He tried not to look at his fellow Slytherins slowly approaching Crabbe and lifting him off the floor with combined levitation spells. Ola, on the other hand, was watching them with unabashed, tactless curiosity. "At least they're still scared of me now," Draco said with a sigh.

"Yeah, and now they are a hundred percent sure that I am a faggot," Ola added with a short laugh. "Whatever that means." He sat down on a similar armchair at Draco's left, and was trying to pull his worn-out suede coat off from under him.

Draco's expression blushed, though his complexion remained marble white. "I'm sorry... I should have controlled myself."

"Ah, cow shit," Ola waved his free hand in cancellation, and continued the movement to shake the coat off. "I couldn't care less what they think."

"You mean "bullshit,". And they'll make your life miserable." The aggressive energy now drained from Draco's body and he felt empty and tired and sad. He looked at Olafur's battle with his coat with humorous dolour. "Probably mine, too, once this demonstration gets old in their little minds."

"We can arrange another one. For educational purposes. That's always positive." Ola could be as encouraging as a comedy act on a funeral. Draco could already see the nasty remarks in the locker rooms before and after Quidditch, the rude jokes, the stupid notes in class, sometimes even a Howler at dinner or some other nasty trick. But when he looked back at Olafur's performance with his coat, the fear of all that subsided. Being outcast with someone like that would not be that bad, he reasoned with himself. Ola was probably an expert at that kind of lifestyle.

"You came back earlier than I thought," Draco changed the subject. He decided that it was pointless to worry about things before they happened, and distraction was his course of action now.

"Yeah, I got bored," Ola said simply. Then Edelsteinn's sad voice returned to him, and his face darkened. "Do we have lessons with Gryffindor tomorrow?"

"Potions, first thing in the morning," Draco smiled. "My favourite lesson. I just hope Snape won't ruin it for me because of this whole incident."

"When do you think he'll find out about this?"

"Oh, right about now, I should think..."

Before any of them could say anything further, the door was ripped open and an enraged Snape galloped in, his big nose all crunched up with anger and his hair ruffled, generally looking like an attacking alleycat.

"Mister Malfoy! Follow me!" he roared, narrowing his small obsidian eyes. The left one was quite noticeably twitching. Draco threw a nervous glance in Olafur's way and slowly stood up. He looked at Snape carefully, as though expecting the unexpected from the infuriated professor. The moment he was on his feet and his things left on the armchair, Snape turned round on his heel and strode back the way he came. Draco followed him through the dungeons to what he knew would be Snape's office. The Head of House's boots scattered loud echoes behind them to roll through the intricate corridors, arches, statues and columns.

When they reached the office and the door snapped itself shut behind his back, Draco noticed that Snape's demeanour had calmed down. The potion master looked at him with something bordering on kind worry.

"What are you doing, Draco?" he asked.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Doing that to another Slytherin? To your best friend?"

Draco frowned. It was almost an insult for him to have Crabbe signed off as a best friend. There was nothing best about him and little friendship was involved. "He annoyed me," Draco said with a sealed expression.

"And all that friendliness with Sigurdsson! A servant, for Merlin's sake!" Snape's lips twisted with disgust. "What would your father say?" Draco hadn't even a chance to answer. "I am telling you, Draco, as your elder, as someone with more experience than you, stay away from that creature. He is sicker than he lets on, he's dangerous and unstable." Draco raised an eyebrow. He'd never noticed any dangerous or unstable patterns in Ola's behaviour. "You are oblivious to the circumstances of his arrival at Hogwarts. And I am sure there's much more that he keeps secret from us all, even from the authorities. They are wild wizards, his family; all of them are in Iceland. They live in a backwards society, stuck thousands of years behind us in matters of culture and education. To be honest, I was extremely unhappy when he was sorted to Slytherin. There is no house in Hogwarts for creatures like him. There's no place for such atrocities on the face of the Earth. Bladursson's sick creations..."

On the inside, Draco was shuddering with rage. How could anyone speak like that about a noble, intelligent, highly educated and good person, just on the grounds of his nationality and decent? And yes, he did realize the extreme irony of this, but he could not deny the anger Snape's words aroused in him. On the outside, however, he was still as a statue; if there was one thing he was good at, it was keeping a straight face.

"You haven't seen that... that... what's under his little runic mask -" Snape went on fuming.

"Yes, I did," Draco cut him off suddenly. "And I know all about what brought him here, he told me. In detail. Sir, I will take your advice into account, but if you don't mind, reprimand me and let me return to my studies."

"I want to see results, Draco, not just be 'taken into account'," Snape said sharply. "That will be ten points off the house, and I am ashamed I have to do this. You get detention for two weeks cleaning the Potions class after lessons. Good night."

Draco nodded, accepting the punishment. It could have been worse, really.

When he was back in the common room, there was no one there anymore. Most Slytherins were already in bed. Draco felt a crushing loneliness pressing on his empty stomach. He want to see Ola waiting for him there, but no dark head stuck out from behind a couch and no big feet hung in the air from over a hand rest. Draco dragged his steps up the stairwell to the seventh year dormitory. He walked over to his bed in the far end of the huge, dark room, glumly noticing green light in the closed curtains of Ola's fourposter. Draco's own bed was by the wall, and was considered the most prestigious one there for the little window far up by the high ceiling. Draco had the house-elves keep it shiny and clean, making sure that at least some daylight was coming in over his territory. He plopped down onto the soft mattress, reaching for his simple cotton pajamas, which, against popular beliefs, were not black and not made of silk. He dressed up, scratched his right eyebrow tiredly, and was going to throw himself back into the soft sheets, when the warm light coming through Ola's curtains attracted his attention again. The weary loneliness returned to flutter in the recesses of his stomach and chest. As if being shamefully sent away by Potter that very morning was not enough, he was going to get shunned by all the people who used to admire and fear him, and the only teacher in the school who remotely liked him was practically commanding him to stop associating with the only person he shamelessly liked in the whole history of his life. Draco went on scratching the back of his head, ruffling his hair. He always felt itchy when he was tired.

I'm not someone to drown in self pity, am I? He asked himself, absently pushing hair off his cheekbone and finishing it off with a generous scratch. Full of resolve, he pushed himself off the bed and set his determined bare feet, albeit hopping gracelessly on the cold floor where there was no carpet, towards the only other waking member of Slytherin. When he was finally before the glowing destination, he suddenly realized that he did not exactly know how to approach a bed. After some deliberation, he raised his left hand with some finality and gently rapped on the post nearest to him.

"Come i-i-in!" rose Olafur's sing-song voice. Draco stifled a laugh with a low snicker and stuck his head in between the heavy green drapery. Olafur answered his curious glance with his own polite blinking. He was leaning his back on the headboard; more exactly, on a mountain of pillows, like some spoiled princess from a kiddie fairytale, his legs stretched far out in front of him and a book in his lap. Draco had to make that same stifled snicker at the sight.

"Where the hell did you get all those pillows?" he breathed out.

"Well, I figured our old electrified friend didn't need his," Olafur shrugged. "And some first year was being annoying to me, so I took his. Let the little brat try sleeping without them, wake up with a sore back." He smiled. "That Crabbe, they took him to the infirmary, you know. So, how much did you get?"

"Two weeks detention, and ten points off the house..." Draco shrugged. "What you reading?"

Ola raised the fat volume from his lap for Draco to see. "Don't just stand there, clamber in. You'll wake everyone up." He caught Draco's thin wrist and pulled him into his little 'tent'. When Draco managed to settle down without having any part of himself on Ola's legs, he finally let himself comment on the title of the book.

"Hogwarts: A History!" He said that in a much creakier voice than he'd intended.

"Shh! Be quiet or everyone will think we're having wild scholarly sex in here," Ola laughed. Draco did not find that possibility amusing, so he hurriedly drew his wand and cast a silencing spell around the bed.

"What are you," he proceeded in a whisper,"Hermione Granger?"

"Who's that?" Ola started playing with the volume, running his finger over the thicket of pages.

"That brainy Mudblood girl from Gryffindor," Draco explained. "One of Potter's friends."

"Oh! The curly one with the strange name!" Ola nodded sagely. "She should stop learning the books by heart, makes her look bad. Oh, and don't use that word."

Draco was taken aback with surprise. "What word?" he mumbled dumbly, even though he knew perfectly well which word the Icelander meant.

"You know which word. And I think you are better than really believing that pureblood chicken shit."

"Bullshit," Draco corrected automatically. "Sorry. It's been instilled in me, you know how they brainwash you. It's a habit."

"Do you really think so, though? You don't seem to think that I am a lowly servant, and that's been instilled in you, as well."

Draco remembered his own righteous rage back in Snape's office. "No, it seems. Not at all... Snape was warning me about you."

"That I am unstable and insane?" Ola snickered all-knowingly. "Snape is a base man whose life is lead by petty jealousy and greed."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Draco was unimpressed. Snape might have been nasty and grumpy by nature, but Draco still liked the bitter professor and appreciated the special treatment he got from him.

"Lord Baldursson was a better Potion Master than him and he is jealous. They had their advanced potion studies together with some really important old wizard, and they hated each other. Did you notice how he looks at me during Potions?"

"Well, he's like that with everyone..." Draco shrugged.

"When they fail. _I_ do it all too well. He doesn't look like that when _you_ do something too well."

"He said you are sicker than you let on. What exactly do they know about you?"

"Aren't we all sicker than we let on?" Ola muttered bitterly. "They know everything they have to know. I'm not exactly fond of reminiscing. I may seem cold and unemotional, but I am human, after all, it hurts me to remember this. Edelsteinn can cry over it every night, he may suffer from nightmares, but it doesn't mean I feel any less than he does if I don't. He is just more extroverted. Hell, Malfoy, I'm a coward, why the hell do you think I am sitting here with you in the dungeons? I've been reading about this whole house thing. I see where that hat put me. It kept talking about all kinds of traits I allegedly have, trying to decide between every house except for Hufflepuff, for Merlin's sake! But I'm too scared to even face what's going on in my head. I'm not even brave enough to let go of my pride and egocentricity to love Edelsteinn the way he loves me... You know, I left him practically crying today. And I didn't care at all."

Draco was staring at his bare feet on the fine green covers. He didn't know if Ola intended for all this criticism to reflect on him, but he felt it did. And he noticed that his own view on his house was not as glamourous anymore, either. He was sure that there were some good things about being a Slytherin, but for the life of him couldn't name even one. Being cunning and powerful and elegant and pure of decent... It could only sound good on some puffy banal vampire, couldn't it?

"We have Potions in the morning, you can talk to him then," Draco said simply. "Why do you think he loves you more?"

Olafur seemed to have trouble formulating it. He was not, however, fazed or embarrassed by such a question. Draco had already gotten used to being able to directly ask anything that crossed his mind. A very Gryffindor trait of Ola's was his straightforwardness. He was scratching his head with the end of his wand and looking up thoughtfully, as if the answer would be written on the canopy. "Have you ever felt the weight of an entire human being's world hanging on nothing else but your existence?"

Draco shook his head. That kind of attachment did not exist in his life, it was even funny to imagine anyone feeling that way towards him. And he would surely not return such a spineless person's emotions.

"And every time you have a bad mood and you say something rude, you can see that person's world collapsing... But every time you are nice and affectionate, you feel... sort of like God. Do you know about the Christian God?" Ola's wondering gaze returned to Draco. "I don't like Christians and their God. But I've studied the issue extensively; I'd read their writings, they are sometimes very beautiful. Sometimes they make me sick. Anyway, that is sort of how they describe the feeling of God _inside_ of them or whatever... It sounds dirty, but that's how they call it. A divine calm, total acceptance, boundless love - just about everything the hungry human soul craves in its existence. Hence the allure. Well, when Edelsteinn is happy, he looks at me like Christians describe feeling God in them. Like there is nothing more he could possibly want in his life. Like it's perfect. And I wish I could feel that way about another human being, because if you think about it, it's truly a noble soul that can give itself away like that. But I always want more. I want to read more books and learn more spells and make more potions and meet more people and see other places - it never ends. What I can feel for him is so small and insignificant in comparison to what he can... It's wrong for him. Sometimes I wish he'd find someone else to take care of him. Now it's more realistic than ever - there actually _are_ other people around."

Draco was beginning to feel optimistic, for some reason. Ola's relationship had seemed so perfect at first sight, but he was suddenly seeing an incredible amount of flaws. And a loneliness that could not be broken.

"He is like a prison. That's how I feel sometimes. Like I am locked in a prison of guilt, because I know he can't live without me." Ola's restless fingers stealthily appeared by Draco's hand leaning on the bed. A long, pale digit glided over a manicured fingernail and slipped off with a muffled little sound. "I've gotten used to it. Most of the time I don't even mind it. But sometimes, when he starts demanding... that annoying, childish, demanding tone..." Dark eyebrows knitted low over his eyes and his thin mouth twisted up in irritation. The muffled sound became a little louder. It hurt a bit. "It drives me crazy, Draco, I swear I can either slap him or get away. So I leave. And then he gets hurt. And his face gets all crumpled up like a little kid. I don't even know if he has anyone to cry to up there. Do you think he does?"

"They're sappy as all hell in Gryffindor," Draco assured him, gently putting his hand over Ola's fidgeting fingers to make him stop. The rhythmic sound stopped, but the jumpy digits were immediately wriggling under Draco's hand. He pressed down harder to make his point clear, but Ola was cunning, as his green tie implied, and he relaxed enough for Draco to stop pressing, then quickly slid away from under his hand. Draco looked up at him and realized that this was now a game. The ridiculously mischievous grin was the giveaway. Draco had to laugh. Sometimes Ola made him completely sure that he should have been a clown, not a wizard. "What are you doing?"

"Being playful in order to lighten the mood, isn't obvious?" Ola's grin widened proudly. "You know the one and only thing I ever heard about your family before I met you?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" Draco felt almost meek under the taller boy's shamelessly curious look.

"I overheard two witches in Reykjavík talking about attending a dinner party in the Malfoy Manor and one of them said that Mrs. Malfoy got insanely drunk and embarrassed herself in front of everyone."

Draco paled and shrank back furiously. "That can't be! My mother never gets drunk! She's a saint!"

Ola was confused for a moment. It seemed his little anecdote got the wrong reaction. "Umm..." he said. "You know, just gossiping hags," he tried lightening the situation, "half of what they say is lies and the other half isn't exactly true, either, you know how it is..."

"I'd kill that wench!" Draco seethed. "I'll tell my father never to invite Icelanders into our home again. Disgusting!"

"Not even me?" Ola put in. "I can be fun at parties."

Draco peered at him, still angry. "Why the hell did you need to tell me that?"

"Because I think it's funny. Drunken parents are loads of fun." He shrugged apologetically. "When _my_ dad would come home drunk from Reykjavík my mom always made these silly dramatic scenes. I used to just laugh my head off, and she'd just rant and rant about how I'll end up a useless drunk as well, and that northern men are all stupid bums and she should have married some Italian wizard that she'd been involved with when she was young. And I'd just laugh and laugh and laugh, because everyone knows that Italians are pansies."

Draco chuckled. Ola had a way of telling such things in an absent-minded, truthful tone that made all these awful stories sound humorous and light. Draco himself had witnessed very few dramatic scenes in his life. His family was not one to engage in such arguments. They weren't the Weaselys or something, after all. Everything was dealt with in dignity. His mother did not have to like living in an emotional fist, but she had gotten used to it, had obviously given her own sacrifices for the sake of a life that she preferred. If she didn't prefer it, why would she sacrifice for it? She was just that dedicated to her family, and she passed that feeling of duty on to him. He knew that she was not always happy about the way she lived her life, but she was willing to overlook herself, for his sake, and for some kind of general well-being that was more important than herself. She would do anything for his happiness. And he would not settle on doing any less for her, that was why her self sacrifice made him miserable and guilty. She always spent her birthdays alone in the pavilion with a bottle of fine wine and a big bunch of diaries. It drove him crazy. Sometimes, he felt her loneliness so distinctly, so sharply jabbing into him, that he could only lie in bed and cry, waiting for the morning. He smirked to himself. It was, in some melancholic way, funny. It was funny with a tear in the corner of the eye, funny with a sad smile.

"My mother writes diaries," he suddenly said, unfolding himself once more and leaning back on the bed. "Almost every night, before bed. They are all crazily enchanted, no one can read them. I tried once, when I was a kid and had a mood for pranks. It electrified me." He laughed. "My mom had such a laugh at me that day when she saw me crying and buzzing with electricity. And my hair was standing in all directions for like a week afterwards. And every time she saw that, she'd point and laugh, like a little girl. Just made sure my father never saw, because he doesn't appreciate that sort of humour. That, by the way, is why I wouldn't invite you over."

Ola was smiling like a well-fed baby. He could get absolutely high on sappy little stories of that kind. Draco, unfortunately, did not have overly many to tell. Aside from his mother's occasional jokes, the Malfoy household was kept strictly clean from light cheerfulness and displays of emotion. It's no surprise she keeps those diaries, Draco thought to himself, suddenly wondering what the hell she was doing with that man all those years, being snobby and posh when she could be so absolutely charming and lovely as she had been that day with the diary. Why was this worth her sacrifices and her loneliness? Sometimes when she forgot about being a rich aristocrat, she could just glow; like her hair was the sun itself, not just lit up by its rays. And when she smiled her naughty, girlish smile, with the teeth showing and the pale red lipstick stretching on the pretty shape of her lips, she was the most beautiful, beloved thing on the face of Draco's world. That was why he always tried making her as happy as possible on her birthdays, in a vain hope to keep her away from the pavilion. He felt like those lonely hours reading old diaries and drinking alone were the saddest thing in the universe. He did not give her fancy, expensive gifts, like he did to his father. He gave her carefully thought-out, hand made little things that would mean something special to her. And they did. She kept every one of this drawings, trinkets and creations in a special box, also charmed against intruders and unwelcome nosiness. And at that memory, Draco felt that painful stab of loneliness again; the heavy loneliness, saturated with urgency and responsibility, dwarfing him into unimportance in his own life.

Draco became aware of that muffled "humph" again. Ola was playing with his fingernail. "I wish my mother wasn't as lonely," Draco said suddenly, looking at the playful fingers.

"I know. It hurts the most." Ola nodded slowly, not looking up. "And you can't do anything about it." He pushed himself off his mountain of pillows and added his second hand to make an intricate rhythm.

"I keep trying to come up with a way, every year, on her birthday, to make her feel less lonely," Draco confessed. "But she always goes..."

"Where?"

"To the pavilion out in the forest. With a box full of old diaries and a bottle of wine. She comes back in the morning all sad. Her birthday is probably the most miserable day of the year."

"I have a method for that kind of situation." Ola said and hummed a little tune under his breath, watching his drumming fingers. "I call it The Philosphy of Loneliness and Desperation. My basic assumption is that existence is lonely. It is the basic human condition. But when loneliness takes over your life, it starts controlling you and changing you - that's when it becomes a sickness. The Desperation. You're desperate to do anything at all, you erase yourself from your own life, just to end your loneliness. It's an illness, and man can't let himself get there. In a world like this, all you can have are small consolations and solaces to keep you going and warm your heart from time to time, keep you away from the Sickness. A forehead to kiss, a person to hug for no reason, a back to bury your face in or a neck to smell like home. And such little wonders must be appreciated, with love. It's the only currency that real consolations receive, you know. So every time I find a consolation, or a solace, or a saviour from the outside world - I appreciate it."

"How?"

"I told you - a kiss on the forehead. A hug. Or, if it's a book or a tree, just on whatever part suits you. I guess my problem is that I scatter my appreciation all over... Not much left for Edel. But I like this philosophy. I wish I could kiss it."

And before Draco knew it, there was warm breath on his hair and a human being pressed to his forehead, and the fingers were still on the covers next to his. And when he realized what was going on - actually, long before he realized - his heart started beating madly in his chest, so loud that he could hear it and feel it all over. And it was a long time before Ola even started moving away. He was frozen like that, with one hand on the bed and the other on Draco's shoulder. For a while it was just Ola leaning his face on Draco's head and breathing. Draco was sure that his eyes were closed, because his breaths were so relieved, so blissful. Draco's, on the other hand, were short and shallow, and his eyes were hammered open, fixed on the warm colours playing on the tall boy's neck, his strange smell just barely reaching his nose. Olafur smelled of leather and wool, and something warm and pleasant. Draco tried formulating what it was, that other, warm smell.

"You smell like fresh toast and butter," his coarse, low voice burst out of his mouth with a nervous grin. Laughter suddenly vibrated from Ola's neck, and his big Adam's apple bounced up and down before Draco's eyes. It looked like poor Adam had bitten more than he could chew, and it got stuck in his throat. For generations. Draco could feel the wide smile pressed into his forehead, and what he was sure to be a pair of front teeth.

"You smell... like shampoo," Ola smelled the path in his hair very loudly. "Disappointing."

"I am a well-bred aristocrat, don't expect me to smell like sweat and beer," Draco quipped.

"Blonds usually have more interesting smells, that's all," Ola explained sagely. He finally found it fitting to pull away from Draco and resume his previous position, playing with Draco's fingers. Now he had a new game, he'd lift a finger as high as he could, then let it slam back onto the bed. To a new rhythm, he started mumbling a cheerful song in Icelandic, waving his head to and fro as accompaniment. Draco liked the sound of the language. He also enjoyed Olafur's voice. His singing was a lot like his foggy, echoing laughter; it was quiet and vibrated from his chest outward, without any help from his vocal chords, it seemed. And it reminded Draco of how his mother sang to herself sometimes when she was brushing her long hair; quietly, blurrily, distracted in her meditation, singing just to feel the sound moving through the air. It felt so warm to remember all this, to suddenly feel all that love that he'd completely forgotten about in the self-centred business of his life. How could he possibly feel cold and lonely when he could feel such warm love for another human being? When he could find magic in one of the only none-magical things his mother ever did? He decided to write her a letter tomorrow, first thing when he got the time (during Divination, probably). And when he goes back home next weekend, he would hug her and kiss her. He could already imagine that long, blissful, speechless hug: she would be surprised at first, because she was not used to such behaviour from him, but she would quickly give in to his embrace and he would feel her smile against his cheek. And there would be no sadness in her eyes for that whole day, and he would feel the knife slide out of his heart. And if he saw her sad the next day, he'd hug her again. It really was, it truly was a solution!

"I like your philosophy," Draco whispered in key with Ola's song. "Can I express my appreciation?" Ola simply nodded, without even disrupting the melody; he was not a complicated person, or, at least, he tried not to be. He was not shy, either, and Draco wished he could be that way. He wished he could do more than just laconically place his mouth on the forehead posed before him.

Suddenly he imagined he could feel the glares of all their roommates boring through the thick curtains, seeing him like that, gently kissing Ola's forehead, his eyebrows, innocent and childlike, arching over his closed eyes. He shuddered and jerked away quickly.

"You'd like to kiss me lower, wouldn't you?" He was pulled out of his reverie by Ola's voice, and the brow that was just recently under his lips creased upwards. Draco didn't know how to answer that question, especially since it caught him off guard. He wasn't exactly sure, to be honest. The first reaction that crossed his mind was an enthusiastic, "Yes!", because Ola's being a guy did not bother him, did not embarrass him - there was just a person there, driving away his Sickness; a very beautiful, close, consoling person. But Ola had a loved-one already. And it was not Draco's business that Edelsteinn was all wrong for him, that he did not deserve someone as noble and rare. Edelsteinn had just been there first, and he probably did love Ola more than Draco would ever be able to love anyone, according to Ola's own description. And what would be for him the mere fulfillment of an impulse, could well ruin a lifetime's love.

"But Edelsteinn..." he started weakly, but Olafur's face was already closing in, his eyes in shadows, and Draco could not make himself relax. He was stiff as a corpse against Ola's flexible warm mouth. His eyes stared blindly forward, but all he could see was streams in autumn forests, and blinding sunlight when you're happy, that makes your eyes teary and your smile wide and silly. It felt like something exploded in his head and he was bare and vulnerable and alone. There was that warm smell of home, and hot lips moving over his very softly, just barely touching. Ola was having fun, nothing more; Draco could see it. His eyes were closed and he had a sort of dreamy smile plastered on his satisfied face as he dived in and out of his kiss with a strange, childish rhythm. Draco cooperated weakly; he just couldn't close his eyes, couldn't drown in this. He wanted Ola to open his eyes as well, to see their colour up close. He wanted to see the soul that he had grown to adore over the last week. (Had it really be just a week?) And at his own leisurely pace, Ola did open his eyes, just a little. They were tilted sideways, along with his whole head, but Draco immediately relaxed and felt his limbs melting under the gaze in the lazily blinking slits. They were blue as ice during a snowstorm, as the sea in the winter - a dark and intricate colour. As Draco studied their shapes and curves, he noticed only in the corner of his vision the hand climbing towards his face. It covered his view, landed softly on his eyelids, and caressed them shut.

XXXXX

Draco lay in his bed and tried to sleep. He had to force himself away from Olafur's fourposter, especially since the socially dense boy was carelessly inviting him to stay the night and talk some more. Draco shook his head to himself, for Ola's apathy, for his own wild wish to stay. It was wrong, what they'd done. It was wrong to Edelsteinn and wrong to Draco himself. The only person not losing from it was Ola, and it figured, since he scarcely cared about such earthly nonsense. His "appreciation" was far from being the love that most people feel. It was a selfish emotion from its very definition.

Draco threw himself on his side and hugged his second pillow, resting his cheek on it. He tried to avoid comparing kissing Olafur to kissing any of the many random girls he'd kissed in his life; it kept jabbing into his consciousness the embarrassing fact that he'd just been throughly snogged by a boy. And worse yet, he was the one being bashful and sheepish - in short - a girl. Draco was not used to lose control like that, let alone be controlled by someone else. Someone he'd known for a week. Someone he would probably not be able to resist in the future. Someone who was male, and, to top it all off, already had a boyfriend.

Draco was also confused about feeling bad. He wondered why that pathetic, jumpy excuse for an aristocrat, Edelsteinn, triggered such a feeling of personal responsibility and guilt in him. If he wanted to be sensible about this, Edelsteinn did not deserve so much as Ola's pinky, while Draco and Ola could make a glorious couple -

What the hell am I thinking! Draco was ready to hit himself on the head from the shock, but all he did was slump a sleepy limb onto his temple and scratch.

Instead, he started planning what he would write in his letter to his mother the next day.

'Dear mother,

I'd like to be able to call you "mum"...'

Draco snickered to himself in the darkness.

'I'd like to make jokes, and laugh at them. And maybe you could call me a useless bum and lecture to me, and say that I'd end up a drunk just like my father. That would be funny, don't you think? I know, all this sounds like I've lost my mind, and this is sort of a private joke, but I will tell you, so you can understand. I miss funny things. Remember that time I tried snooping in your diaries...'


End file.
